"coniferous" poems
From brown eyes to green, the date began
I extend my hand to invite a handshake
We both exchange an “It’s nice to meet you”
We are escorted to our table
Chosen at random by our server, but perfectly selected
For the spot offers a phenomenal view of the coniferous trees below
And the majestic mountains of the North Shore
Our eyes meet again
From brown eyes to green
We sit and start conversing
You are stunningly dressed and I cannot take my eyes off you
Your eyes are locked into mine
You must be really into me just as I am into you
Our server interrupts, we place our orders
Your every move makes my heart flutter,
From how you flip the pages of the menu
To how you rest your elbow on the table with your hand on your chin,
Smiling sweetly at me
I’m having an amazing time
You tell me you are too
Dinner goes by in a flash, the sun has fully set
We drive off through the winding road and into the city traffic
I haven’t kissed you yet
But I want to
After umpteen intersections and two cities
We arrive at your apartment
I walk you to your door
I turn to face you
From brown eyes to green
I lean in for the kiss
A quick gentle one
I wish you a good night
But you want more...
From brown eyes to green
You lean in and kiss me with fervor and passion
You ask me if I want to come in, but I’m hesitant to answer
From green eyes to brown
Your intense, desire-filled gaze pushes me to say yes
Another episode to the evening begins..
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
the lakewater near the banks darken with the shadows of coniferous trees
not unlike the way my ***** darkened just the other evening with transgression
and i find myself waiting,arcing the ash from my cigarette in fiery transient streaks.
this is north west angle's public dock, a sunken relic of the anishinabe
appropriately too young to be old just like the ******* rest of us.
kee no wahh she spits with conviction,
her forked tongue a testament to the near science fiction
that keeps its ugly head low to the ground
in the backwater communities of
rural ontario and manitoba
and saskatchewan
and beyond.
purple and yellow and green galaxies span across the deep space of my neck
and that's good enough, they reckon, to land me in the passenger's seat.
now the sun's shallow beneath the canadian shield
leaving only a violent, open **** on the skyline
and the watered down blood of ritual sacrifice to
filter up through the cheesecloth of the underbrush
and effectively discolour the poplars in a pastel
identical to the lining of my ****
so ask me how many children have been
stranded on the pallid, uneven terrain of my thighs
and i'll stop making references to my ******
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 10:12 AM UTC
May 23rd, 2019
I first felt the ferrous fissures
Delivering shivering quivers
Down my spine
As each chime took the sight
Outside our present days
Then the shakes grew into tension
My naked, sobering suspension
Was left never to mention
Nor whisper what I needed to say
And when I asked you of this
You withdrew so quick
I only had time to trace the lines
Of your last escaping shadow
Holding on to tentative strings
And all the small things
You left for me to find
The same gray forests of signs
And plaintive silent ways
Designs you used to craft
And convey with clever ease
Laughter once beseeching my thoughts
Silence now haunting my dreams
These memories are now
Presently looming
Cold coniferous trees
It's not as if I can pretend
Like simply taking paper and pen
Could possibly remedy this
While I have to look down
At the ink staining my foot
Ankle and wrist
I'm convinced that I created this fate
Because in this picture frame
I'm the only one who made a mistake
*You carry the hate in your heart
like it's been privileged to you*
*My misgivings have adopted
the persona that I imbue*
*I faced the other way as we faded
when you withdrew*
*You suffered daily
and faced this struggle alone*
*Claiming everybody abandoned you
and did you wrong*
*-But you don't lose me
Like I've told you all along*
RE: August 23rd, 2021: - but now you've lost Me with the same old song
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 2:20 AM UTC
1.
Before I knew he had.
His flight trailed off into a Utah
Sunrise. He left behind a little strand
Of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw
Long talks of topics that soon thinned grey,
A set of dog-eared books has been put down.
Books that brought nearer to my thought his own,
While Interstate-5 grated the ground.
2.
He must have, as the plane touched the runway,
Felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones,
His thoughts turning to those dog-eared days;
The seemingly endless months full of groans,
As they should have been, being spent alone;
And that set of books, at least it would seem,
Ignited the wick on which our passions gleam.
3.
These six years past since they took him away
Held minutes like a needle in plied dust.
There’s something in the spring that brings decay:
The outward beauty of the world just
Clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust
That all the blooming flowers usher in.
Then the rain comes...
4.
As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth,
I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess:
Men who’d not anticipated births
Inside my brother and I like cypress
Trees, evergreen and coniferous, we
Drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun,
Barely audible, gasps in the copse.
He’s with me now. What’s done is done.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
They walked in together with flushed faces and cold ears, after walking for what seemed like minutes in the coniferous forest surrounding the cedar cabin. Those minutes were actually hours, but when they were out here time did a funny thing and sometimes stopped all together. He hung their coats in the closet as she stripped herself of boots and socks, with bare cold feet she walked across the patterned carpet feeling its fibres between her toes. She perched herself on the couch in her favourite reading spot. He then too assumed his position on the couch allowing a space inside his outreached arm to be filled by her appreciative body. As she blankly gazed at the green life out the window, he gazed at her. Memorizing the freckles on the bridge of her nose and the way she puckered her lips without noticing. Absorbing all of her for a keepsake in case she decided to disappear as fast as she had come. This girl, he thought, is the most beautiful combination of genes and timing I have encountered in my life. But he didn’t mean physically, he meant her laugh and her stubbornness and how she believed she was spontaneous but every moment of her life was planned. It scared him how much and how detailed he saw his future, and how she was undoubtedly in it as far as he was concerned. Sometimes he wished he didn’t feel so much for her, for them. He had been hurt before and he grew accustomed to the calluses around his heart.
She breathed it all in, slowly but thoroughly. She breathed in the warmth of the burning furnace, the smell of wood that was still alive. She breathed in his sent of musk, soap, and mint. She breathed in his delicious smell of love, his pheromones. This place was exactly what they needed, some time in a surreal place to remember each other and how well they used to fit. How well they do fit. The stress and distractions of everyday life were tugging at the strings that kept them woven together. All they needed was time to be silent together, time to think together about different things. She knew that their hands and souls would fit together again like they always had, if they just gave it a chance. And now, here they were in their own made happiness. Sitting here as one piece of human, making love in the most innocent of ways.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
Looking out the window I was transfixed by the trees
The outside edge of a vast forest
It was autumn and I admired the various colors of the leaves
I felt as if I were on pins and needles
Preparing to go out and commune with nature
As was the way with those of us blessed to live in Oregon
I have always lived in Oregon
Though I have traveled to many different forests
Often I am struck by the difference in the leaves
As I wander through my home away from home, nature
Stopping often to examine the trees
Crush and smell the needles
There is nothing like the smell of fresh Fir needles
When standing in a temperate rain forest
Like the one we have here in Oregon
Looking out across the tops of the trees
Entranced by the turning Oak leaves
Becoming one with the surrounding nature
It is such a blessing to have a relationship with nature
And fairly easy if one chooses to live in Oregon
You needn’t have love for forests
Or a desire to play amongst the leaves
The eastern desert has Juniper needles
And small scrub-brush trees
The Oregon coast has wind-swept trees
With branches stretched and tattered leaves
We find the smell of pine when crushing these needles
Along the Pacific in beautiful Oregon
And while the difference is vast within nature
It is all part of the greater Oregon forest
I stood content, as a part of the forest
Rooted to the spot I stood I became one with the trees
Beneath me lay the softest bed of spruce needles
I thought, “I am living as part of, and in tandem with, nature,
this is what it is to be an Oregonian”
I stretched out my fingers and they became as the leaves
Contemplating Oregon and its various coniferous needles
The natural beauty surrounded me like a thick stand of trees
And the forest held me close, as if I were a freshly opened leaf
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
before I knew he had.
His flight trailed off into a Utah
sunrise. He left behind a little strand
of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw
long talks of topics that soon thinned grey,
a set of dog-eared books has been put down.
Books that brought nearer to my thought his own,
while somewhere Interstate-5 grates ‘cross the ground.
I sleep there still, although I left for good.
That house to this day asks me where he was.
Their smiles, the little comfort that they could
give, were emptier than their words. Often
I feel the vague pulse of their ragged stares –
torn, threadbare they unravel in the air
to mask their faces: that inner decree
which shades the truth. Where and how’d they ever grow wrong?
He must have, as the plane touched the runway,
felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones,
his thoughts turning to those dog-earing days.
The seemingly endless months full of groans,
as they should have been, being spent alone.
And that set of books, at least it would seem,
ignited the wick on which our passions gleam –
slate-grey regards.
These six years past since they took him away
held minutes like a needle in plied dust.
There’s something in the spring that brings decay
here. The outward beauty of the world just
clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust
that all the blooming flowers usher in.
Then the rain comes –
in spitters and spats it spins the spire.
When gone the white-wick’s still on fire.
As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth,
I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess.
Famed men who’d not anticipated births
inside my brother and I like cypress
trees, evergreen and coniferous we
drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun,
barely audible, gasps in the copse.
He’s with me now. What’s done is done.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
Autumn in New Zealand is a masterpiece on canvas
Patternings of goldens and bright rose hips in their beds,
Copses of coniferous in deep and darkly avenues
To the brilliance of a country lane awash with leafy reds.
Chimney fires are smoking in the rural country cottages
The warming glow of lanterns in the windows as I pass,
A tantalising whiff of hot buttered scones is wafting
And somewhere in the distance I can hear a red deer bark.
Strolling by the lakeside in the early morning stillness
My breathing fogs before me in the chillness of the air,
Rowan trees glow scarlet and the naked ***** willow
Has shed her golden carpet on the emerald hillock there.
Rushes rattle softly in the mistyness of lowlands
Treeeferns in their glory of silver filagree,
Sparrows ruffle feathers to insulate the coolness
As wheeling flocks of starling mass to migrate to be free.
Gossamer as fairy dust the thistledown is floating
A harbinger of autumn leaves and freezing frost to come,
Those Coriollis forces are determining the changeling
Where the snowy days approaching means the Autumn tones are done.
Marshalg
27 April 2013
In rural Pukekohe.
New Zealand
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
thousand droplets hang
from the tip of each bare branch
of the ginkgo tree.
Each orb holds the world in it
like the ornaments that decorate
a coniferous cousin, they
reflect me and all I see
today, a curious blend of grey.
Each shed leaf
is replaced by a tear
too delicate for me
to decipher all that it carries.
I am too distracted
by what I carry
to grasp what each holds
suspended so perfectly
making everything it reflects
into a single something solar twinkling,
each cosm capturing
all in need of being captured.
Today
I am left with no color.
The sky, the trees, the asphalt,
and the air I breathe,
in their unified beauty
say nothing.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
On a bright and sunny day
On the 18th of May
An earthquake resulted in a landslide
That unleashed a massive force brewing inside
The eruption removed the upper 1,300 feet
The magma chamber burst- rock & gas blown at supersonic speed
Within 8 miles, all was instantly wrecked
With a shockwave so big, what could one expect?
As the north slope collapsed down
All life forms began to drown
Every tree in sight swept away
19 miles outward; a ruinous ashtray
Silence breaks as ash falls like snow
The once mature landscape now just an embryo
What had become a lifeless terrain,
Now shows us what 35 years can attain.
After the volcanic cataclysm
Biological legacies determine the pace of new ecosystems
The following colonizers proceed:
Lupines, pearly everlasting, alder shrubs, and fireweed.
The coniferous forest was replaced
The deciduous Alder trees won the race
The new forest attracts grasshoppers, birds, and ants
Larks, gophers, sparrows and deer mice take a chance
Out of 256 species alive prior to the eruption,
86 are now in production
20% of the surface is covered with grass and legumes
Struggling young trees that endeavor to bloom
Ecological gaps begin to fill
Strong ecosystems form, production is uphill.
Elk arrives to munch on grass and bark
The thick forests attract birds, like larks.
Fallen logs create nutrients and feed biofilm to the lake
Floating ecosystems now have plenty resources to take
Elevation affects the rate of recovery reports.
The higher the colder, which means the growing season is short.
The loss of trees means more room for sun
As the lake warms up, there’s increased production
More insects and bigger fish, like rainbow trout
Salamanders are scarce now, not many about.
Lupines deserve their own stanza, those purple legumes.
They help make a pumice landscape suitable for others to bloom.
Lupines create essential nutrients the pumice is low on
Other plants are thankful for the rare space to grow on.
All this information hopefully to inspire,
Life pulls through in situations most dire.
Mount Saint Helens’ destructive wake is seen clearly today,
The eruption that obliterated had also paved a way.
May 18, 2022
May 18, 2022 at 11:31 AM UTC
Somewhere in a strange land
An unknown heart throbs for me
Etching an amorous graffiti
On the blank walls of my mind
Where ever I am, I feel a pair of eyes
Fondly surveying and scanning me,
Speaking to me in silence
And keeps me awake in the night
I feel it all, I hear it all
Filling me with a sweet ache!
When night birds croon in the woods
And their mates answer the serenade,
When the moon begins her somnambulistic walk
And light beams percolate through pine needles,
When a hundred eyes open in the blue heights
To watch over the sleeping Earth,
When the whistle of a train is heard far away
And its music wanes into a monotonous drone,
When the rooster makes his first clarion call
Breaking the serene silence of the night,
When glow worms float in darkness
Like cruise ships over the sea,
When night gales shake the slender coniferous trees
And wind whistles among their leaves,
When sailing clouds blind the stars
And the night turns into an ebony shade,
When the opening Jasmine secretly exults
In her own exotic scent,
Sitting in my dimly lighted room
I draft this message of love
Pouring all my warmth into it
Thus emptying my love laden heart
That blazes with the fire of love
And encode it in cryptic script
To be mailed to you, my love!
Oh, it might take much time
Better it be a whispered endearment
Sent through this perfumed night breeze
That shall carry it from this end to that end
So kindly leave
your window open!
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
My skin is worn and torn
like a coniferous seed
waiting to grow
into
a towering pine
and then into
a ream of paper
that mostly just
becomes crumpled
individually
and thrown out
like a heart
bleeding far too frequently,
forcefully gushing itself
onto innocent polypropylene
white as purgatory.
My new soft shell
is slowly reborn.
I can't provide comfort
with bulging ****** knuckles
and fingertips burnt,
scarred,
and eyesight that
is mediocre at best.
My hands have seen enough days
to bandage abrasion
and let go of hate.
My detachment never ceases;
but to pick up the slack
of a nervous system gone bad
is to live a deciduous life
perpetually changing seasons.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 3:02 AM UTC
As
The ground shifts
My fingers throb
ancient knowledge
Flows through
These
Palms
The banter of
Geographical boundaries
Clashing against
Foamy tides
This
White noise
Collects dust
amongst a light - polluted
Chemical factory heart
Pumping arduously
so as to hang on
By a spiderweb thread
Carefully
Rushing in & out
Of
Distributed consciousness
The
Asphalt buckling heartbeat
Slows to match the
Acidic raindrops
Devouring
My coniferous mind -
it's silent
lifeless ambience
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
Welcome to my crypt
Where dreams dormant lie
Covered in cobwebs
and gathering dust
Calcified veins
Once abundant with blood
Now a coniferous wood
Petrified
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
The sun set upon this world and in the morning again it rose,
monuments towered the crust, but all life was somehow gone.
Panning through the downtown streets, there were no people in this land.
The ocean depths were devoid of life, and the polar caps lay silently ******
The Vegas strips were dead and still, the lights we know were dim.
New York was a desolate wreck, buildings crumbled and toppled in.
The Statue of Liberty stood tall, queen of all beyond her eyes.
She saw what had happened that fateful night, but she did not blink or cry.
The Eiffel Tower stretched into the heavens, king of all of grand Parí.
The Golden Gate Bridge connected two dead shores, silent as could be.
And what of this lovely place, where Big Ben let his hands tick away?
The world was so deathly silent; his ticking could be heard in Bombay.
There were no fish in the sea; they had perished in the night.
There were no gulls on the beach; hushed were their cries of fright.
There were no mummies in the tombs; the riches they had gone to waste.
There were no people in LA; to a silent crowd it roared and quaked.
There were no ***** in the sand; their scurrying feet were still.
And a pest control had done its work for there were no rats in the landfills.
There were no worms beneath within the earth; no birds to pull them apart.
There were no roaches in the dumps; no crying kids in Wal-Mart.
There were no ants within their dens; no eaters to pry them away.
There were no bacteria within this world; no viruses now, much to their dismay.
The plains were barren; there were no trees, grass, ferns, or weeds.
The tropical forests, the coniferous mountains, all rocky as could be.
And what of this once lovely planet? It spun through time and space.
Once so full of beauty and life, now completely laid to waste.
The Earth stood still as it raced through that void; all life stripped from its crust.
Still it never knew that we were gone, and so it spun finally hushed.
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 11:00 AM UTC
A thousand, mindless bodies
marching in front of me
on a familiar trail through
misty, lush forestry
strained backs carrying towers
of accumulations
free choices made with
weighty ramifications
at the end of the path
a ruinous shrine
as old as the surrounding
coniferous pine
each soul shruggs off
a singular burden
fulfilling each obligation
of that holy bargain
now, encircle the tribute
watch it all burn
stand in ecstacy without
care or concern
I refuse to join this fever,
can never be a believer
I accept my ethical freedom
my will undefeated
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
I remember when lachesism took place
You enkindled me with your smile
You and I were culpable at the start
We wondered into the coniferous forest
Only for you to elicit these feelings upon me
You had rutabosis, I did not
Your ambivalent heart took a toll on mine
Love seems pretentious to me now
But even when I fall asleep trying to escape the day I dream of you
I fall in love with you all over again
It's all too ambiguous and ethereal
Causing my incarnadine heart to turn blue
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
~
coniferous forms
dance in the umbra,
flickering oranges
of molten tongues,
of yellows and reds,
bathing the night;
its hungriness fed,
in the softened light.
like fingers it reaches
across the deep snow,
long shadows are creatures
in ember’s glow;
devouring consumption
as flames turn to ash,
like ravenous huntsman
his prey in his grasp.
a ghost in the darkness,
’neath a sliver of moon;
a howl in the stillness,
a shivering tune;
in patience awaiting,
straining to see
a dark horse arising,
’cross a bright galaxy;
the fire now low as
he aims and he shoots;
an eye for his target
ends a night of pursuit.
his prey is now captured,
his work here is done;
the camera now loaded,
his drive home’s begun.
~
*post script.
the astrophotographer’s task is almost always lonely and usually cold during Milky Way “hunting” season. from the vantage point of Watchman’s Fire Lookout overlooking Crater Lake, a friend spends nights in a tent (or even an igloo), his only companion perhaps a campfire in the deep snow, chasing his dream of shooting the night sky. his reward for his labors? incredible videos and stills, caught in the lens of his camera... and our praise. Matthew’s motto is simple - “capturing the light in the darkness!" and what heavenly light he captures! interested in seeing some of his work? simply Google his motto!*
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC
like days these ours are in moments stilled
the steel of moments
in us them and them in us
their hair is ours
their bones are ours
they are cold and
fantastic
and
quiet as a ship
on an ocean
so pale
and dreaming
its head a war of stars
the damp
light ****** in smoldering
they are the spades of digging
deeply purple blacking soil
on the fresh cut grave
of the small majesty
of last light
telling just behind the swollen bridle
telling the face of dreaming dusted
eaves, the coniferous blades,
of forest young and thick
“hush”
May 6, 2011
May 6, 2011 at 1:56 AM UTC
The darkest chasms hold
secrets of my soul
in the shape of my-
coniferous cone
I lick your frivolous flames
douse them with my tongue
even so, you can’t stay
in a wooden box anymore
You discarded mine for those
growing fondly around us
better shaped
unlike mine
When days were miracles
we carried our hearts
as trophies
Hearts wither and fail with the passing of time
Wishes, hopes, faith, love all wither together
But not this
coniferous cone
the shape of my heart
which you replaced
with a forest of your own
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
Солта е (гора) иглолистна
Целогодишната истина
Чиито очи цветовете Ти не сменят
..*,
Salt is… (a forest) coniferous
Truth perennial
Whose eyes don’t ever shed your colors
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
Deep waves of worry lifted from my wayward vessel,
possibilities contractually released from memories obligations,
these days wash me away, polish me into my best shell,
one day, into more days, possibly may unstoppably get me from getting to myself, so..
Plato was for real when he said 'know thyself',
cerebral awareness and love is the truest form of common wealth.
This world is mere marbles, in a jacks game of my universe,
I am vast endless beyond time.
And I play with shark and dragonfly,
battling but admiring a layer of teeth and focused flight
coexisting together for better.
Grasping onto future concepts, I am a creature,
clasping onto future branches, you are the teacher.
But you are the future leaves upon loves coniferous shape,
you are the light catchers.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 1:40 AM UTC
In the cold fields of tundra
And coniferous forest
Pine-trees wailing for ages
When the sea is the sorest
But this sea is not tropic
This is not tender land
It is harsh and so perfect
My lost heaven, last stand
It's agressive for people
Which are living light-hearted
It's abode for a sorrow
Where the wind had been started
It will blow off the spring
Then gone summer and autumn
After all this allusion
Winter won't be forgotten
This is not place like others
It is calm and so silent
Near crackling of a fire
I will find my own island
Semi-darkness near bedroom
Modest house is sooty
There's no place around
You can look at such beauty
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
I would like to
Build up
Pyramids of sounds,
Sylvan corridors of
Golden cork pines - where
Spats of the sun
And single rays
In the spider’s web,
And further artificial gardens
Of coniferous scent of the resin.
Touch the cloud on the forest pond,
Taste of cherry on your lips………
Wait!
How many senses?
Five?
It is time for Meditation.
Take a deep Breath……
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
No one hears this or sees it at all
It's not life, sound, or feeling.
It's an absurd apology from an ancestor,
A silent delta supporting static streams,
A breeze displaced from intentional orbit.
On it we float, aimless as little baskets of Moses,
Destined for quarries filled with birth stones,
Passing stables, sprawling into sensible horizons,
Through fields of recirculating whispers, and beyond
The nebulous mountains of abstract memory.
This seismic world divides us, eventually
When we come to the coniferous death:
one emboldening, one defying the sovereign sun,
We lay down our life force--
-suspending the moments long enough
-excavating lives lost in massive capsized ships
-forgiving each other's steps in the inevitable fall
--and rest among the fertile, archived graves.
She visits there, laying a flower on each stone,
Replacing black with yellow, again and again.
An echoing gesture of love for us all,
The drifters outside of sight and sound.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 12:48 AM UTC